


i take you by the hand

by mothwrites



Series: more spider than boy [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Becoming a Superhero, Coffee Shops, Family Fluff, High School, Hospitalization, Human Experimentation, Mentors, Multi, Secret Identity, Sequel, Tony Stark Has A Heart, With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-16 21:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9289601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothwrites/pseuds/mothwrites
Summary: Peter is tired of being a victim, and wants to be a superhero. Luckily, New York is just the place for that.(Sequel to "neglected son of genius", an AU where Peter is given the spider venom as a baby.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to everyone who left comments and kudos on 'neglected son of genius', because you guys kept that fic going, and it remains my favourite work to this day. I just couldn't let this universe go, and I thought you guys (and Peter) deserved some proper Spider-Man action.  
> I'm patsywxlker on tumblr - feel free to come say hi!

Peter yawned and burrowed deeper into his father’s arms on the sofa. Comfortable and drowsy, he was half-listening to his dad read _The Tale of Peter Rabbit,_ and half-asleep. Curt’s soft, English voice filled the room, along with the rustling sound of well-thumbed pages and the _click-clack_ of Mary’s laptop keyboard on the coffee table by the window.

“He looks tuckered out,” Mary commented with a smile as she looked over at her partner and son.

Curt looked up from the pages to see that Peter had, in fact, fallen asleep. With the stump of his right arm trapped under his son’s head, he laid the book down on his stomach with the other and stroked Peter’s hair. “Well, it’s not every day you turn five, is it?”

“I’m surprised he lasted this long,” Richard said, coming into the living room with a tray of mugs and setting it down on the side table by Curt. “Okay, one cup of disgusting leaf water for you, and coffee for the Americans.”

Curt caught him gently by the collar as he bent down and they shared a kiss, jostling Peter in the process. Sleepy-eyed, he looked up at both his fathers and focused on Richard.

“Dad?”

“Uh-oh,” Richard said, scooping Peter up in his arms before he straightened up again. “We woke the baby.”

“M’not a baby,” Peter mumbled, hiding his face in Richard’s neck. “Can we play hide and seek again tomorrow?”

“I don’t see why not,” Richard said, smiling. “Now it’s time to go to bed, kiddo. Say goodnight to daddy.”

“G’night daddy,” Peter said, as he was lowered down to press a clumsy kiss to Curt’s cheek.

Curt ruffled his hair. “Goodnight, sweetheart. Sweet dreams.”

“And say goodnight to mommy,” Mary yawned as she finally stopped typing and made her way over to where her family was congregating. “Come here, baby.”

Peter happily moved over into his mother’s arms. “Night, mommy.”

“Good night, darling boy. Happy birthday.”

As Peter made himself comfortable, another Peter stepped closer to the group; sixteen years old, wide-eyed and ghostly. “ _That’s not right,_ ” he murmured. “ _I left mom when I was two._ ”

“I’ll take him up, Mary,” Richard said. “You finish what you’re working on.”

“ _No,_ ” the older Peter said, a little loudly than before, but still softly, as if not to disturb them. He watched in discomfort as his younger self was moved back into Richard’s arms, perfectly happy to be passed around like a parcel as long as he was getting cuddled by one of them. Mary, smiling, went back to her laptop. Curt, who Peter couldn’t ever remember calling ‘daddy’, pressed one last kiss to Peter’s forehead and then sat back on the sofa with his mug of mint tea.

“Come on, Petey.” His father carried him upstairs, with his older self following behind. He made no noise as he padded up the stairs after them. “Did you have a good birthday?” Richard asked.

“ _No,_ ” the sixteen-year-old thought. “ _I was sick. We were alone. We couldn’t go to the hospital._ ” In an instant, the room – a childlike version of the room Peter had finally gotten used to sleeping in – morphed into a cold, white room, bare apart from a few pieces of furniture and a bed. The walls were marked with greasy blue tack residue and the wallpaper peeled from the damp.

“Just try and sleep, Peter.” Richard was the same age as he had been before but looked older: greyer. The sixteen-year-old Peter looked up to see himself curled up in the bed, too sick to make a web. His father was stroking his damp forehead. “I promise you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“Dad,” the five-year-old croaked out. Pale. Sickly.

 _“This isn’t right either,”_ Peter thought. _“But not in the same way.”_

“Peter? Just try and sleep. Peter. Peter…”

“ _Peter...”_

Peter awoke like a shot, and before he could take a moment to properly register his surroundings, he panicked to reach out and touch eiderdown and cotton instead of webs.

“Peter,” said his mother, worry evident in her voice.

“I’m okay, I’m...” He drew the covers up closer to him with a slight grimace and looked up at his mom. It was still dark outside, but not cold like it had been in the dream. “Is – is everything all right? What’s wrong?”

Mary sat down on the bed beside him, and wordlessly passed him her phone.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “After seeing this. And then when I went to take a walk, I heard you talking in your sleep.”

Peter smiled to see that his mother had thoughtfully dimmed down the brightness on her phone to the lowest level for him, but the smile left his face as he scanned the news article she’d brought up.

“That’s pretty crazy,” he mumbled, trying very hard not to focus on the grainy picture of a teenager scaling a building. “The vigilante thing in New York is really getting out of hand, huh?”

“So,” she said, narrowing her eyes slightly, “You don’t know anything about this?”

Peter shrugged in his pyjamas, and was careful to make eye contact. “Mom, I couldn’t scale a building if I wanted to. No stick. No webs. It all faded, remember? Cause you took such good care of me,” he joked, though he couldn’t quite smile through the anxiety. “I’m not just an experiment anymore. I’m a real boy!” he added, affecting a Pinocchio-style voice.

“Oh, Peter,” she laughed, drawing him into a hug that he gratefully accepted. “You’ve never been _just_ an experiment. I’m sorry, I panicked. It’s probably just an awful photo of Daredevil, isn’t it?”

“It is kinda grainy.” Peter pulled back, and ran a hand through his hair. “Um, I love you, but can I go back to sleep? School in the morning…”

“Of course, honey.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead and put her phone back in her pocket. “Let me know if you need anything, all right? You looked like you were having a bad dream, earlier.”

“Sure. Night, mom.” Peter waited until she’d left the room before leaning back and letting out a deep groan. It was getting lighter outside, and if he was lucky, he’d get at least four to five hours of sleep in total tonight.

Peter kicked his goggles further under his bed and webbed his curtains shut. “Sorry, mom,” he murmured before he fell asleep.

*

“Peter, you look exhausted,” Harry noted the next morning as they walked to AP Biology. “The bags under your eyes are bigger than _mine._ ”

“That’s saying something,” Peter agreed.

“ _Boys_.” Gwen came up behind them, tutting. She didn’t approve of their cavalier attitude towards Harry’s illness any more than she approved of Peter’s night-time exploits. He flashed her an apologetic smile, and automatically reached out to take her hand in his.

“Was that you in the paper?” Harry asked, his voice low.

“Nope,” Peter said immediately. “It was a very low-res photo of Daredevil.”

“Scaling a glass wall?”

“He’s a man of many talents.”

“As if you’d –  wait,” Harry stopped dead outside the classroom. “ _Wait._ Do you _know_ him?”

Peter dipped his head modestly. “We’ve run into each other once or twice.”

“God, I hate you,” Harry said, with no real heat behind his words. “You know I used to be the most interesting person in Gwen’s life? Now look. She’s got her very own superhero.”

“She’d much rather have her very own uninjured boyfriend,” Gwen shot back at him. She shepherded them both into class, mindful to keep her voice low. AP Biology wasn’t a large group, and the kids in their school were curious by nature. The school had just about gotten over the sudden entrance of Peter Parker - the famous missing child - but it had taken months of the three of them dodging questions and laughing off rumours until they could just be a group of friends sat in class and not a news item.

She looked over at the desk next to hers. Harry was right. He looked _exhausted._ Not the same kind of pale, bone-tired exhaustion he’d seen in him when they’d first met - he was so much healthier and stronger now without his father’s influence – but the constant late nights were taking their toll. Most of the time, he assured her, he wasn’t even fighting anyone. Just climbing. Mapping the city. Enjoying his freedom.

“I’m not injured,” Peter murmured. “Promise.”

“You _will_ be, if you’re not careful,” Gwen shot back.

He held his hands up in defence. “Don’t hurt me.”

“Idiot.”

“Mom saw the photo,” Peter confided in them both an hour later, as class was filing out. “She thinks it’s me.”

“You’re aware that your mother isn’t stupid, right Parker?” Harry drawled. “She’s a singularly intelligent woman; not that one would have to be singularly intelligent to realise that this new vigilante exhibits a lot of the same traits as their super powered spider son.”

Peter shoved him, and then regretted it immediately.  He was so much stronger these days, and Harry so fragile, but if he was hurt, he didn’t show it.

“Coming over for dinner?” Peter asked. Harry was at the Parker’s more nights than he was at home these days, with his dad splitting all his time between work and hospital check-ups.

Harry shook his head. “I can’t tonight. I have to attend a gala.”

“Well, if it’s a _gala,_ ” Peter teased.

“Look, Peter – “ Harry stopped in the now empty corridor. He hung back, clearly uneasy. “I know we were all joking before, but this thing you’ve got going on at night… it’s not healthy. You know it’s not.”

“I’m _helping_ people,” Peter insisted. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Harry didn’t press the issue, but didn’t talk much on the way home either. When they parted ways at the bus stop, Peter tried to push down the wave of guilt that rose up as Harry turned his back.

*

“So I hear there’s a really bad photo of you in the Bugle,” Peter said cheerily to his sullen partner. He’d caught up with Daredevil on his way home _completely_ by coincidence. Honest. He wasn’t even wearing his suit: just a hoodie and a scarf to cover most of his face. He hadn’t worn his suit yet.

“So I hear,” Daredevil agreed. It had taken him a few weeks to get used to Peter trying to engage him in conversation, but Peter had worn him down to an almost comfortable rapport. “Did that convince your mother?”

“You don’t know I’ve got a mother in my life,” Peter argued. Daredevil had worked out his age almost instantly, and so Peter kept everything else tightly under wraps. “But yes, I think so.”

Daredevil shook his head. “You should go home.”

“You say that every night,” Peter whined. “Let’s shake it up a bit. How about we work together tonight?”

“ _No._ ” Daredevil careered away suddenly, trying to shake him off, but Peter followed him regardless. He’d learned not to totally believe the man’s stand-offishness. “Stop following me.”

“If you don’t train me, I could end up anywhere,” Peter said, bringing out the big guns. Daredevil stopped and cocked his head, encouraging Peter to go on. “Don’t you want to stop other people from ending up in dumpsters like you? Or is that rite of passage?”

Daredevil scraped a hand over his face and groaned. “God, you’re annoying.”

“I’m _adorable._ ”

“Debatable. _Go home._ ”

“But,” Peter continued, still dogging the man’s heels. “You totally don’t want to see me dead, so you put up with me. The next step is training!”

“This plan assumes rather a lot,” Daredevil commented. “Like the assumption that I care what happens to you.”

“You _care,_ ” Peter argued back, catching up to him as the other man was taking determinedly long strides. “You haven’t pushed me off a building in weeks!”

“Don’t tempt me,” Daredevil growled. He stopped in his tracks. “Are you going to keep following me around until I say yes to your hare-brained schemes?”

“That’s pretty much the gist of it, yeah.” Peter tried not to sound too hopeful: he’d never met anyone like Daredevil for reading tone, and he didn’t want to seem too desperate. But he wanted this _desperately._ Something about the man told him he _understood;_ Peter didn’t know how he knew, only that he did. He knew they had a past in common. He knew that they shared _something._ And he knew that Daredevil would be his best teacher.

“Come back tomorrow night,” Daredevil finally said, his voice less growly than before. “Maybe I can teach you something. For now,” – he paused, and Peter almost shivered with anticipation – “ _go home._ _”_

“Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you!” Peter chanted, grinning, because he knew _exactly_ how much his usually infectious enthusiasm would work on Daredevil, of all people. “You won’t regret it!”

“I highly doubt that,” Daredevil said, dryly. “Don’t make me tell you again.”

“Right.” Peter dithered: what was the appropriate protocol for making plans with a fellow vigilante? Handshake? Manly hug?

Daredevil settled the question by shooting a wire and swinging off the building. Peter shrugged.

 _Home,_ he thought, and then thought about his empty bedroom and his parents asleep down the hall, and his little brother in the room next door. He should go home. He should really, _really_ go home.

He went to Stark Tower.

*

“How’s the suit?” Iron Man asked cheerily, touching down beside Peter on the rooftop of the Stark Tower building. “I assume not great, since you’re not actually _wearing_ it.”

“It’s perfect,” Peter said glumly. “It’s really great, Mr Stark.”

“And you’re clearly _thrilled._ ” It took Mr Stark about two clumsy minutes to sit down beside him in his metal suit of armour. Peter genuinely appreciated the effort. “What’s wrong, kid? You’ll notice I’m trying to vary my terms of endearment, because you won’t tell me your actual name.”

“Have you never read a comic book in your life?” Peter teased him. “Secret identities are important. We can’t all out ourselves at a press conference.”

“Fair, fair.” Tony opened his face plate so he could talk properly. His eyes scanned Peter and he winced, just slightly. “Kiddo, you look exhausted.”

“I get enough of that at home,” Peter snapped, and then the guilt rose up again. He was so _lucky_ to be home.

“So what’s wrong with the suit?” Tony said, tactfully not rising to Peter’s mood. “Is it the glide? The gloves? The colour scheme?”

“I’m colour-blind,” Peter said automatically, and then stopped himself. “No, sorry, I’m not.”

“… Okay. God, you’re weird.”

“Sorry.” Peter fiddled with the cuffs of his hoodie. “I used to be colour-blind. And I _really_ like the suit. It’s just… As soon as I put it on, this will all become real.”

There was a pause as Tony removed his helmet all together. He looked friendlier without it. More open. “You don’t have to do this,” he told him. “What you’re doing. This job. You can stop at any time.”

Peter shook his head furiously. “No, I don’t want to. I _like_ this. Finally using my stupid powers for something good. It’s just, I’ve got a family, you know? They’ll be so mad. And I can’t risk losing them after it took me so long to actually _find_ them.”

To give Mr Stark his credit, Peter thought, he was clearly _dying_ to ask more questions, but kept a respectful distance. “So you think they’ll recognise you in this suit?” Tony asked.

“They definitely will. That spider-motif… it’s kind of hard to mistake. Mom’s already suspicious.”

There was that wince again. “God, how old _are_ you? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. So they know about your powers, but not your, uh… extra-curricular activities?”

Peter nodded. “I can’t keep it from them forever. They’re not stupid,” he said, remembering Harry’s words from the day before. “What would you do?”

“Like you said,” Tony shrugged, “out myself in a press conference. But I can afford to do that. And I don’t have a family. Not like yours. And I don’t know you well enough to put myself in your shoes.”

“You just like designing spandex suits for strangers?” Peter asked.

Tony looked at him with a strange expression: almost rueful. “Well,” he said, “someone’s gotta keep an eye on you. Look, do you want to come test yourself out indoors? I’ve got a lot of space. Top-of-the-line gym. Less cold than this freezing rooftop – aren’t you cold?”

He _was_ cold, Peter realised. He’d been hugging his hoodie closer to him with every passing minute. “I should go home,” he admitted. “I can’t get too cold – it’s a spider thing.” He’d been trying to force the idea into his head recently that he was allowed to be comfortable. “Maybe,” he continued, with some of the shyness he hadn’t yet been able to shake off in his new life, “maybe another time?”

Mr Stark gave him a genuine smile. “Of course, spider-ling. Any time. Don’t sit out in the cold when you don’t have to, okay? Promise?”

Peter felt a rush of warmth towards the strange, eccentric billionaire who always seemed to know when Peter was passing by his rooftop. “Promise,” he said.

Days passed, and Peter still hadn’t worn the suit. More days passed, and he went to class, and hung out with his little brother, and went on dates with his girlfriend, and still in the back of his mind, he thought about going out each night as Spider-Man, instead of wearing a hoodie and a mask to meet up with Daredevil. Though if the other vigilante disapproved of his less-than-impressive homemade costume, he never said anything.

“Friend of mine wants to meet you,” Daredevil said off-handedly one night as they finished up. Peter, his muscles already aching from the sparring session, tensed up.

“Who?”

“Don’t worry,” Daredevil said, somehow sensing his panic. “She’s a friend of Tony Stark’s, too.”

Peter relaxed, ever so slightly. He liked Daredevil, a lot, but he trusted Tony.

“I go to this coffee shop every Sunday,” he said. “Uh, which is tomorrow. She could meet me there. After midday.” He told Daredevil the location, feeling only slightly apprehensive. “Oh, and hey!” Peter dug around in his backpack for a paper package. “I brought you a cookie; my aunt makes them, and they’re the best. Uh, it’s to say thank you for teaching me. You put up with me for a whole week, so I’m sure that definitely means you’re in need of some baked goods.”

Daredevil took the cookie, and didn’t say anything. When he spoke, his voice was gruff, almost thick.

“Thank you,” he said, slowly, like he was picking his words with extreme care. “I… I like being your teacher. You’re a good student.”

Peter glowed. “Thanks, DD.”

“Matt,” Daredevil said, surprising them both. “I suppose if we’re going to keep doing this, you can call me by name. Matt Murdock.”

“Peter Parker,” Peter said.

Matt quirked his head. “The… the kid from the news? Mary Parker’s son? Oh, God,” he continued, his face falling as Peter didn’t deny it. “You’re _sixteen._ ”

“You knew that,” Peter pointed out, suddenly uncomfortable. Daredevil – _Matt’s_ – whole demeanour had changed. He was being _careful_ again, like when Peter had first approached him.

“I…” Matt dragged a hand over his face. “I’m just surprised, is all. Look, you did a good job tonight. Go home. I’ll tell Natasha where to meet you on Sunday.” And he left, without giving Peter a chance to respond.

Peter swung home, Matt’s words ringing in his head. _“Mary Parker’s son?”_   His facial expression: almost devastated, like he’d been complicit in taking Peter away from her. Peter felt the now-familiar anger prickling at his skin. What happened to him hadn’t been anyone’s fault but his father’s. The sooner everyone stopped talking about it, the sooner he could get over it.

All the lights were out when he got home, save for the lamp in his room. Peter frowned as he swung towards the windowsill. He hadn’t left any lights on. From the bed, Harry gave him a tired little wave.

Peter climbed in through the window and bounded over to him. Harry had been crying; although he gave Peter a weak smile there were tear tracks on his face and his breath hitched as he whispered a hello.

“Don’t worry,” Harry said before Peter could speak. “I covered for you. Everyone thinks you’re asleep.”

“When did you get here?” Peter asked as he pulled off his mask and hood and slung an arm around Harry’s shoulders. The clock on the bedside table read 3:15 am.

“About half an hour ago,” Harry said. “Dad’s…”

Peter’s heart stopped.

“In hospital again,” Harry continued. “I think he’s going to be there for a while.” He didn’t say, _forever,_ but Peter heard it anyway. The last time he had seen Norman, the man had been impossibly frail and what little health he had left was declining rapidly. Harry sniffed and buried his head into Peter’s side. They stayed like that for a long time.

“You need to sleep,” Peter said eventually, stifling a yawn himself. “ _I_ need to sleep. Come on, buddy.” He looked at the ceiling longingly, and thought about making a web he could stuff with pillows, but it wasn’t worth his mother or Curt seeing and asking questions. The bed would do. He toed out of his shoes and changed into pyjamas, throwing a spare t-shirt and bottoms at Harry, who took them gratefully.

“Put any bad guys away?” Harry yawned, curling up in his half of the duvet.

Peter shook his head. “Just training.” Pleased with the extra body warmth, Peter nudged Harry slightly by gently pulling on his t-shirt until he huffed out a laugh and moved closer.

“Training for what, exactly?” Harry murmured.

“For being…” Peter trailed off into a yawn. “For doing some good.”

“You could have done some good _here,_ ” Harry murmured. “Not that I don’t love this righteous vigilante thing you’ve got going on, but…”

Peter looked at him, and guilt settled in his stomach. “You needed me here,” he sighed. “I’m sorry. This is so, _so_ much more important.”

Harry, not disagreeing, closed his eyes and fumbled until he found Peter’s hand in the bed. “You’re here now,” he said, after a while. “But maybe, when you’re out being a hero… just keep your phone on.”

“I promise,” Peter said.

They slept well into the morning, until Mary came in to wake them both up and to let Harry know that Norman was still unconscious, but stable. “You can visit,” she said, “but they won’t be waking him up for a while yet.”

Peter hugged his mother good morning, still wrapped up in the duvet, and she ruffled his bed-head. “Are you going out this morning, sweetheart?”

“Not if we’re going to the hospital,” Peter said, looking sideways at Harry. His promise to Daredevil – Matt – hung heavy in the back of his head, but he’d meant what he said last night. His family was more important. “If you need me…”

Harry shook his head. He seemed renewed after a few hours of decent sleep. “Sunday traditions first. I know how this works: they’ll let him sleep for a while, and call me later. We’d just be in the way.”

“If you’re sure…” Peter said. “I’ll text Gwen and let her know, then.”

Harry left to shower, and while Peter waited he leaned his head against Curt, who was sat on the bed next to him.

“I feel like we’ve hardly seen you recently,” he said softly, ruffling Peter’s bedhead with his hand. “How’s school?”

“School’s good,” Peter said noncommittally. “School’s easy.”

“I’m sure it is,” Curt laughed. “And Gwen? You two still okay?”

“Still okay,” Peter grinned. “ _I’m_ okay, I promise. Nothing’s wrong. Just enjoying my freedom.” As he smiled, however, guilt settled in his stomach. He hadn’t been home much lately, he knew that. “I’ll be home straight after, promise. I wanna hang out at home.”

His mom gave him a pleased smile that only increased his guilt. “That would be nice, Peter. But you focus on Harry today, okay? He needs you more than we do right now.”

“I’m going to check on Norman now,” Curt told him, “so if it’s really bad, I can let you two know straight away. But I’m sure he’s okay. He’s in very capable hands, I promise.”

“What if…” Peter started to speak, and then stopped, and fidgeted. Two sets of concerned eyes fell on him. “It’s really bad, though, isn’t it? Not just today, I mean. He’s really ill.”

Curt seemed to pick his words carefully. “It’s not a condition we know very much about, even now.”

Peter stared at his hands as he spoke. “Wouldn’t the… the research on the spider venom, would that help?”

Curt, who had stood up to leave moments before, sat back down again. “Richard destroyed all the samples, Peter,” he said softly, explaining the situation as gently as he could manage. “I’ve no doubt that it _could_ help a great deal, but we don’t have any of it left to experiment on.”

Peter looked up at him. “But you have me,” he said.

Mary crossed her arms. “No-one’s experimenting on you again,” she said fiercely. “That’s not an option.”

“Mum’s right,” Curt said, glancing between them both. “It wouldn’t be fair on you.”

“What if I _want_ to?” Peter argued. He realised now that he’d been shutting the idea away in his head, even though it was the most obvious solution, and he felt selfish, and small. “Because I don’t want them to _die._ Not if I could help. You could just take some of my blood, I’m not exactly scared of needles. If it would help,” he said again, looking from Curt, to his mom, and then back to Curt. “Would it? Help?”

They seemed to be having some kind of telepathic conversation above his head. Outside the room, the noise of the water from the shower stopped, and Mary’s expression softened as she remembered Harry. Curt took one of Peter’s hands in his own.

“It would,” he said. “We can talk to Norman about it, if you’d like. I don’t know what he’ll say, but… it’s worth a shot.”

Peter exhaled, and felt like he’d finally taken a step to doing some _real_ good, instead of just talking about it. Mary sat down and put an arm around his shoulders.

“Not today,” she said. “Look after Harry first. We’ll talk to Norman when he’s feeling stronger.”

They left the house half an hour later without discussing it in front of him. Harry seemed resolute to ignore his current terror for the sake of their Sunday coffee shop tradition, and although Peter was worried, he wasn’t sure that making Harry face his reality was the best plan right now. Gwen, who Peter had warned by text before they left, hugged him for much longer than usual, before she took both of their hands and lead them to the table she’d been sitting at.

“I’m going to go order,” Harry said pointedly, smirking slightly as he left his bag on the chair and joined the small queue.

“How is he?” Gwen asked, as soon as Harry was out of earshot.

Peter sighed. “He’s doing that “everything’s okay” thing because he doesn’t want us to fuss. But he’s not okay.”

“Well, none of us would be,” Gwen said. “God, he’s so pale. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.”

“I can confirm he slept last night,” Peter replied. “Oh no, he’s looking over. Quick, pretend like we’re definitely _not_ fussing over him from afar.”

“Easy,” Gwen shrugged, and leaned in to kiss him. Peter laughed as she drew away.

“You know, that’s not what I meant, but I’ll take it.” He brushed a lock of blonde hair away from her face and kissed her again, tasting her cocoa butter lip balm and the coffee on her breath. It was such an effective distraction that they didn’t even notice when Harry came over with two hot chocolates and an exasperated, yet fond, sigh.

“Honestly, you’d think you two hadn’t seen each other in _weeks._ ”

“Well, we’ve got a lot of time to make up for,” Peter grinned, breaking away and lying his head on Gwen’s shoulder. He took the cup of hot chocolate and thanked Harry, who sat down and checked his phone. “Anything?”

“No news is good news, right?”

“Are you sure you don’t want us to go to the hospital?” Gwen asked.

Harry shook his head. “I’d just be sat there with nothing to do. I’d rather have the distraction.”

“In that case,” Peter said decidedly, sitting up, “do you want to meet a superhero?”

“I’ve met Tony Stark already,” Harry replied.

“Nope. I actually don’t know who it is, but I was supposed to be meeting someone here today. A friend of Daredevil’s.”

Gwen turned her head to look at him, concern evident on her face. “What happened to secret identities?”

“I trust him,” Peter protested. “He hasn’t thrown me off a building in _months._ ”

“How are you supposed to meet someone when you don’t know what they look like?”

“Well, I assume she knows what _I_ look like. She won’t be expecting you two though, so look around for anyone who seems shifty. Also – and this is important – I _will_ bail on this and go to the hospital at a moment’s notice. Seriously. It’s way more important.”

Harry responded by scowling and drained half a cup of hot chocolate in one go rather than snap at him, which Peter appreciated. The three of them looked around the coffee shop; it was busy for a Sunday, but not crowded, so they would be easy to spot by anyone who was looking out for Peter. No-one _looked_ particularly superheroic, but then again, neither did he.

“You know,” Harry commented, “I’m sure normal friends don’t have this many stake-outs.”

Gwen took a sip of her Frappuccino and leaned back, comfortably leaning against Peter. “I hope it’s Jessica Jones.”

“Yeah, you haven’t followed a case that intensely since Peter went missing,” Harry laughed.

“She’s _cool._ ”

“Guys.” The back of Peter’s neck prickled, and he swivelled round to see a red-haired woman watching him from the coffee shop counter. “I don’t think it’s Jessica Jones.”

“My my,” Harry murmured. “Better hope she likes you, or we’re all screwed. That was subtle,” he added, as Peter waved her over.

“Hi,” Peter said, as Natasha Romanov pulled up a chintz armchair to sit with them, looking slightly bemused at how many teenagers she was seeing. “Uh, it’s an honour. Spider to spider, you’re my favourite Avenger. Did you get bitten too, or are you just naturally cool?”

Gwen bit her lip to stop herself from laughing, while Harry brought a hand over his eyes and groaned.

Peter squirmed at the Black Widow’s piercing gaze. “Uh. Sorry. I basically only knew one person until I was sixteen so I’m not so good with the social cues, you know?”

“You know, I didn’t believe Matt when he said he was training a teenager,” Natasha finally said. “And now I think I would pay to see this in action.” She took a sip of something that smelt herbal. “So. Introductions?”

Peter swallowed. “Um. I’m Peter. Matt’s… trainee. You know that, sorry. This is my girlfriend, Gwen.” He smiled a little as he said it, because it still felt new and exciting every time. “And this is my best friend, Harry.”

“Charmed,” Harry said.

“They know about… everything,” Peter explained. “We’re a trio. They helped me make my web shooters.”

“Nice work,” Natasha acknowledged. “I’m Natasha Romanov. And no, I wasn’t bitten by a spider.” She leaned back in her armchair and surveyed them all intently. “I’m just naturally cool.”

*

Peter figured that if Daredevil and Black Widow knew his secret identity, Iron Man should too. He turned up on the balcony of Stark Tower the next night, to the surprised delight of his host, who immediately introduced to him to Dr Banner as “my adorable protégé.”

“I’m _Daredevil’s_ adorable protégé,” Peter corrected him. He accepted an offer of tea and hopped up to sit on the kitchen island as Tony brought up plans he’d been wanting to show him. “Also, I met Natasha. She is _so_ cool.”

“She’s not cooler than _me_ ,” Tony pouted. “Right, Bruce?”

Dr Banner – ‘call me Bruce, honestly’ – huffed out a laugh as he busied himself with cups and teabags, and coffee for him. “Yes, dear.”

“You’re like, my all-time favourite scientist,” Peter said, grinning abashedly at him. “Apart from my stepdad. And Betty Ross.”

“Betty’s my favourite too,” Bruce said, smiling and ignoring Tony’s squawk of indignation. “Would I know your stepfather?”

“Maybe,” Peter shrugged. “Curt Connors? He works at Oscorp.”

“Connors,” Tony mused. “Cross-species genetics, right? Worked with – “ he cut himself off and his eyes grew wide. Peter immediately shrank back into his hoodie. “You’re Richard Parker’s son.”

“Tony,” Bruce said softly. A warning.

“I’m Curt’s son,” Peter said, curtly. “If Richard Parker wanted to be my dad he shouldn’t have experimented on and kidnapped me.” He thought back to his conversation with Natasha in the coffee shop. They had exchanged stories, and although he’d told her more about himself than she had of him, they had found a common ground as once-experiments trying to forge their own path away from the people who had controlled them. “I don’t have to forgive him to be a good person,” Peter continued, because the two men were still looking at him a little strangely. The words sounded rehearsed – like a mantra – but his expression was fierce and genuine. “People don’t have to forgive their abusers.”

“That’s right,” Bruce encouraged. “And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” He passed Peter a mug of tea; and Tony a mug of coffee with a kiss on the cheek. “Is that the new suit?” he asked, peering at the designs projected on the table. He was obviously changing the subject, and Peter was grateful for it.

Peter nodded while inhaling the fragrant steam from his tea. Peppermint. He wished he could lose his taste for it.

“You don’t like it,” Tony stated, watching his partner carefully.

“No, no I do,” Bruce hastily corrected him, although his eyebrows were skewed and questioning.

“ _But?_ _”_

“But couldn’t it use more… I don’t know, padding?”

“It’s _aerodynamic._ ”

“It’s skin-tight,” Bruce argued back. “Is it going to stop bullets?”

“I can dodge bullets,” Peter interjected helpfully, but couldn’t stop himself smiling at the two of them. Out of all his new-found super-friends, he was starting to like Bruce and Tony the best. They hadn’t tried to talk him out of being Spider-Man or fussed over his health. If anything, they were the most excited of anyone about his powers and abilities, and their encouragement meant a lot to him.

Plus, he’d had a huge science-crush on Dr Banner for _years._

As he watched the two of them bicker affectionately over suit designs, his phone rang.

_Incoming call: Mom._

“Hey mom,” he said loudly and deliberately, flapping his hands at the other two. Bruce and Tony dutifully lowered their voices. “What’s up? Uh, no, I – “ he looked quickly at the time on his phone – “Oh man, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise it was that late. Honest. No, I’m totally fine. I’m just studying with friends.” He winced at his own lame excuse, but it wasn’t a _total_ lie. He had been working on his physics homework with Tony earlier. “Yeah,” he laughed, “I have friends who aren’t Harry. It’s a brave new world! Yep. I’ll be home before you know it. I’m sorry. Love you too.”

The two scientists exchanged a worried look as they waited for Peter to hang up the phone.

“I was _just_ thinking about how cool it was that you two have never lectured me about having a secret identity,” Peter said in his best ‘warning’ tone.

“Right you are,” Tony sighed. “Okay, I’ll keep this here. You run on home. And you can tell your mom Iron Man said hi.”

“Oh yeah,” Peter laughed as he shrugged on his hoodie and picked up his backpack from where he had dumped it on the sofa earlier. “Yeah, that would be a _really_ fun conversation. I can’t wait.”

Peter felt only a little guilty as he swung his way home. The faster he got home, he reasoned, the less his mom would have to worry. And so it was only fifteen minutes after picking up the phone that Peter found himself on his own doorstep, digging in his pocket for his keys and walking through the front door. A personal best.

“Aunt May!” He grinned, spotting her, and ran forward into the living room to greet his aunt and uncle. “Aww, I didn’t know you guys were coming over!”

“I told you this morning,” his mom called out – not unkindly – from the kitchen, although her tone was a little frosty.

“How bad is it?” Peter asked in a low murmur as he hugged his uncle.

“I would give her a _very_ big hug when you apologise,” Uncle Ben answered, in a similar tone of voice. He clapped him on the shoulder bracingly. “Go on. We’ll be here.”

Peter scampered quickly into the kitchen. His mom looked pale and weary, and he was overcome with remorse as he noticed the relief in here eyes once she’d spotted him safe and sound. It took him two seconds to clear the room and pull her into a hug.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, face buried in her shoulder. “Really, I’m the worst.”

“Oh, Peter.” She let out a shaky laugh and held him close. “You were just being a teenager.”

“A _sucky_ teenager,” he corrected her. “I totally meant to be back by curfew, no ifs, no buts, _but_ we lost track of time.”

She wiped his eyes as he pulled back. “I know, sweetheart. It’s okay.” She exhaled deeply, looked at him one last time, as if confirming he really was okay, and then got back to work dicing carrots.

“Where’s Curt and Billy?” Peter asked, popping a chunk of carrot in his mouth and grinning when she caught him.

“They should be home any minute,” she said, with a quick glance at the clock on the kitchen wall. “He went to go pick up Billy from hockey practice, uh… half an hour ago.” For a moment worry flitted across her face again, but she shrugged it off. “Can you go keep your aunt and uncle company, please?”

Peter didn’t need to be told twice: he loved May and Ben. They had taken gaining a second, super-powered nephew completely in their stride, and they had the peculiar gift of somehow managing to make him feel like they had known him for years. He never felt different or alien with them, he was simply Peter Parker, helping out at his uncle’s garage and baking with his Aunt May. Just Peter.

“He lives!” Ben crowed triumphantly. Peter hugged him again, just because he could. “How was school?”

Peter shrugged as he nestled in between them on the sofa. “Well, I think people have finally stopped staring.”

“It’s been months!” Aunt May clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “You’d think they’d have gotten used to it by now.”

“Kids love to gossip,” Ben said wearily. “Don’t you listen to them, Peter.”

They continued on that way for a while; chatting to him about school, teasing him about Gwen, until Mary poked her head around the door, looking for her phone.

“Everything okay?” Peter asked, noting the worry in her brow.

“Curt should be home by now,” she murmured. She held her phone to her ear and tapped her foot impatiently. “Come on… Damn it, voicemail.”

“His phone’s broken,” Peter remembered suddenly. Curt, who he had learned was _not_ a morning person, had managed to drop his mobile in a bowl of milk waiting for Billy’s cereal just before he left for work. It was lying in a bowl of rice on the kitchen table.

“Of course it is,” Mary sighed, a hand running through her hair. Her worry had infected the room, and now Peter was on edge, listening intently. “I’ll call the school.”

May got up, despite Mary’s half-hearted protestations, to supervise the food in the kitchen, and Mary followed her to make the call. Uncle Ben laid a hand on Peter’s shoulder as they were left alone in the room.

“I want to talk to you about something,” Ben said, a serious look on his face. Peter swivelled around on the sofa to face him. They had talked a lot, Peter and Ben, about life and history and the future; everything Peter had missed, and all that he wanted to do. From his uncle’s expression, this seemed to be even more serious.

“Shoot,” Peter said, worry creeping up the back of his neck.

Ben reached into his pocket and drew out a slightly crumpled newspaper clipping, and Peter’s stomach dropped. “You need to work on your poker face, Pete,” Ben said, sounding slightly amused.

Peter hadn’t been brought up to curse, so he said “ _fudge_ ” fervently, staring at the paper. “You’ve got better eyesight than mom.”

“Hardly,” Ben chuckled. “No, this old man just remembered you getting stuck to the panes of window glass in the garage last week.” Peter had brushed past a pile of windows waiting to be fitted into an old car and it had taken a few moments to extract his hand: enough time for Ben to notice, clearly. “Peter,” he said, lifting his nephew’s chin up gently so they were at eye level. “You got something you want to talk about?”

“ _Please_ don’t tell mom,” Peter whispered, knowing it would be useless to try and deny anything now. “Let me show you something.”

“I haven’t told anyone,” Ben promised, and got up to follow Peter up the stairs. Peter lead him to his bedroom and skittered around, kicking dirty laundry under the bed and hastily straightening out the duvet. Ben smiled at him, trying to be comforting, although under his shirt his heart was beating at what felt like twice the speed at the thought of what his sweet, teenage nephew was getting up to at night.

Peter crouched down, shot a web into the space under his bed, and pulled out a cardboard box. He placed it on the bed so Ben could peer in. Folded up under a pile of gadgets – some of which looked a lot more homemade than others – Ben saw a suit of red and blue.

“Iron Man made it for me,” Peter said, and couldn’t help the slight tone of pride in his voice.

“Oh, Peter,” Ben sighed. He picked up the fabric and rubbed it with his forefinger and thumb, feeling how thin it was. “This is… Well, this is a whole new level, isn’t it?”

“I haven’t worn it out yet,” Peter admitted. “There’s kind of a huge spider on the front. Thought it might give me away.”

“You’re not wrong,” Ben murmured, surveying the suit in his hands. “Peter, you’ll die of frostbite before anything else. You get cold quicker than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“ _Tony Stark_ made it,” Peter argued back quickly. “It’s special fabric. All thermal-y and stuff.”

“Is it going to stop bullets?” Ben asked, sounding remarkably like Dr Banner. Peter squirmed, and didn’t answer. “ _Peter._ ”

“No, probably not,” Peter acquiesced reluctantly. “We’ll work on that! It needs to be aerodynamic before anything else. And there’s a tracker built into the right wrist shooter, which shoots out this really cool projection of the city, and -”

“Peter,” Ben said again, interrupting him mid-tech-babble. “Why are you doing this?”

Peter drooped, and his gaze fell back to his hands. “I need to,” he mumbled.

“Why?” Ben refrained from saying: _haven’t you been through enough?_ He was having flashbacks to the night they realised Peter wasn’t coming back; May hugging Mary, who was sobbing into her shoulder, Curt wandering around the living room, completely lost, and Ben stood in the middle of everything. Worrying about his nephew. Missing his little brother. Wondering where the hell everything went wrong.

“Because… I have these powers,” Peter gestured. “I should use them for something _good._ I don’t want…”

“Yes?” Ben prompted. Peter had fallen silent, his mouth set in a hard line.

“I don’t want to have gone through everything I did,” Peter said, “and have nothing to show for it. If I can make something good out of this mess… it would show him that I’m better than what he made me.”

 _Him,_ Ben thought. He moved the box backwards on the bed and scooted across so he could sling an arm around his nephew. Peter burrowed into him gratefully, breathing deeply. They had never once discussed his father.

“When Richard was still a teenager,” Ben said, cautiously, “we left home and came to New York. Your grandparents were… difficult people to live with.”

“So I’ve heard,” Peter said. “But he didn’t talk about them much.”

“No,” Ben sighed, “I don’t suppose he would. Richard holds a grudge better than anyone I’ve ever met. But he had this code, ever since we left. That if you have the chance to do good, you should do it. And damn the consequences.”

Peter perked up at his words, twisting his head to look up at him, hopeful.

“I’m not saying those are words to live by,” Ben said hastily. “Seeing where it took him, in the end. He thought he was doing good.”

“I can do good,” Peter said softly. “I can cancel him out.”

“That can’t be why you’re doing this,” Ben said. “Not the whole reason. You have these incredible powers, Peter: but with great power, comes great responsibility.”

“Responsibility,” Peter repeated in a murmur. Something seemed to have a struck a chord with him, and Ben sighed a little in relief.

“Not just to the city. To your mom and dad – Curt, I mean – and your little brother. Your family. Understand?”

Peter nodded. “I’ll tell them,” he said, sounding just a little miserable.

“Good boy,” Ben said, pulling him back in close. They stayed like that for a moment, uncle and nephew, until Peter started at a sound from downstairs. A funny look came across his face, like he could hear something else Ben couldn’t.

“Something’s wrong,” Peter said, and shot up off the bed to run downstairs. Mary and May were stood in the middle of the living room, frozen and staring at a news cast on the television.

_“Disturbance on the Brooklyn bridge – citizens told to not go near the site – an unidentified creature terrorising trapped civilians…”_

Peter stopped listening. He’d just seen what his mother and aunt were staring at: two familiar blond heads crouching behind a car in the chaos on the bridge.

“ _No,_ ” he breathed out, terrified. “Not again.”

“Peter – “ Mary turned, having just realised he was there. “Peter, they’ll be okay.” She didn’t sound convinced, and neither was he.

“I’m going to get them,” Peter said. He looked at his mother imploringly as her hands flew to her mouth. “Wait here.”

“Peter!“ Ben called after him, but he had already gone. Moments later, he reappeared.

The room was silent. Peter stood, drawn up to his full height. On his chest was emblazoned a large, black spider. He held a mask in his hands.

*

The first time that Billy remembered being told about Peter was when he was ten years old.

“That’s Dr Connor’s son,” a woman at the Oscorp reception whispered to her friend, although not quietly enough to stop Billy hearing. His dad had forgotten his ID card, again, and had run upstairs to grab it, leaving Billy at reception. They had been on their way home.

The receptionist’s friend was startled, and shot a quick look at Billy, before turning back. “I thought Curt’s son was dead?”

“No, no,” the receptionist _tsked._ “That’s Richard’s son. You remember Richard Parker? They both went missing years ago – dead, probably. This is _Curt’s_ son, Billy.” And then, oblivious to the fact that he was a fairly grown-up little boy who could understand adults talking, thank you very much, she flashed him a smile and offered him a sweet from her bag.

Minutes later, when his dad had returned and they were walking to the bus stop, Billy was still mulling over the new information in his mind. He only sort of knew who Peter was; a kind of family ghost, only ever mentioned in hushed voices or behind closed doors.

“Dad,” he asked, as they turned the street corner. “Can I ask you something?”

“Always,” Curt said, sounding mildly concerned. He stopped in the street and knelt down to hear him better. “What is it?”

Billy tried to choose his words carefully, but there were so many questions trying to spill out, he couldn’t cope. “Is Peter dead?” he asked.

His father’s face fell, and his grip on Billy’s shoulder tightened slightly.

“No,” he said, after a long while. “No, I don’t think so.” He looked around the streets and spotted an empty-looking coffee shop. “Why don’t we get a hot chocolate before we go home?”

It was in that little coffee shop, nursing a cup of cocoa, that Billy found out everything about Peter. Curt brought out his wallet as they sat down and drew out an old, faded photograph of a brown-haired baby, that was slotted in next to Billy’s latest school photo. “This is your older brother,” Curt said.

Billy wrinkled his nose. “But he’s a baby.”

“It’s a very old photo,” Curt explained, smiling fondly at the baby in the picture. “He’s fourteen years old now. He’ll be fifteen in the summer.”

“Where is he?” Billy asked.

Curt took a long sip of his hot chocolate. “Okay,” he sighed. “So, before you were born, your mum and I; well, mum had another husband. Richard. And we had another baby: Peter.”

He was looking at Billy the way he did when he was explaining big-school science problems, like he was worried that Billy didn’t understand. He understood fine; his mom and dad used to be in love with someone else, and he had seen him in the picture albums he wasn’t supposed to look at. Mom still had his last name, and Dad still had some of his things in his office. This wasn’t news.

“Okay,” Billy said, shrugging. “But what happened to them?”

“Well,” Curt said, looking slightly unnerved at Billy’s easy acceptance of his explanation, “Richard ran away. And he took Peter with him.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“We don’t know,” Curt answered immediately. “We haven’t seen either of them since Peter was a baby; although your mum and I have searched, very hard.”

Billy mulled this over. He had read lots of books about lost children; stolen princes or orphans living in cupboards. He had never thought it could happen to real little boys. “Are you still looking?” he asked, suddenly feeling very lost himself.

“Always,” Curt promised. “We won’t ever stop looking for him.”

Billy finished his cocoa and felt a little less confused, but he couldn’t get the idea of his lost big brother out of his head. When they finally got home his mom gave him a hug and repeated assurances that they would never let him be taken too, but Billy hadn’t been worried about that. He’d just been thinking about the lost teenager he should have grown up with. In his head, Peter became a sort of fantastic figure; a wizard, or an alien, or a superhero, depending on how Billy was feeling.

And then he came home. And he really _was_ a superhero.

Billy hoped that was still true.

“Don’t worry, dad,” he whispered. They had been crouched behind their car for what felt like hours, but could only have been 20 minutes. It was cold – the January wind whipped around them – but that wasn’t why Curt was holding him close. The creature stalking the bridge was busy terrorising the people in the cars up front, and he was trying to shield Billy from it and its view.

“Don’t worry,” Billy said again. “Peter will come.”

*

“You _promised_ me you weren’t using your powers,” Mary said, horrified. Her hands quivered near her mouth. “Where did you even _get_ that?”

“Um,” Peter said, looking down at his spandex-clad body and feeling, admittedly, a little foolish. “I kid you not, Iron Man made it for me. He’s actually really nice.”

At the words ‘Iron Man’, Mary let out a groan, and Ben bit his lip as if he were trying not to laugh.

“There isn’t time to argue about it,” Peter said, pointing towards the TV screen. “I have to _go._ ”

“ _Why,_ ” asked Mary, stalking forward. “Why do _you_ have to? Why can’t you let the police do their jobs instead of making it yours?”

“Because if I don’t…” Peter fumbled with the mask in his hands.

“What?” his mother pressed, her expression a mixture of fear and motherly fury. “Is it something Richard told you to do?”

“No!”

“Mary,” May said quietly, soothing her from the side lines. “Let him talk.”

Peter shot his aunt a grateful glance, and reminded himself to let her know that she was his favourite person in the world. “Thanks,” he mumbled. “If I don’t do this,” he repeated, almost working out the reason for himself again as the words came out, “then everything I went through was for nothing. All of _this_ can’t go to waste. It’s a…” he turned his head slightly, to look at his uncle. “It’s a responsibility.”

Ben smiled.

“The city of New York is not _your_ responsibility,” Mary continued. “You’re just a kid. There are people who are _trained_ to do this.”

“I’m trained,” Peter argued. “Well. Train- _ing._ I’m a work in progress.”

“Iron Man?” Ben asked.

Peter dipped his head modestly. “Daredevil, actually.”

“Nice.”

“ _Ben,_ ” May admonished, although she had an ever-so-slight smile on her face too.

Mary stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder, tracing the web design with her fingers. “I can’t lose you again,” she said. “Do you understand what that feels like?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Peter said pointedly, and nodded towards the screen. “I’ve lost one father. Harry might lose his. I’m not going to risk my other dad too.”

There was a pause that felt like an eternity, and then, to Peter’s surprise, Mary stepped back, and sighed. When she looked at him, there was a new determination in her eyes.

“Put a coat on,” she said. “I’ll drive.”

Before she could change her mind, Peter grabbed a hoodie from the sofa and shoved the mask in his pocket, before following her out of the door. He slid into the front seat of the car beside her.

“Thanks,” he said, still shocked.

“Buckle up,” Mary advised. “Can’t rescue anyone if your crazy mother crashes the car.” They sped off, taking advantage of the emptier-than-usual streets. Peter purposefully did not look at the speedometer until they slowed down a few minutes from the bridge. Police cars were blocking the roads and in front of them was a sea of people and flashing blue lights.

“Let me out here,” Peter said as Mary pulled in to an empty side street. “No-one will see and I can swing from – “

“I thought we were going to join the Captain,” Mary said, frowning, but she unlocked the passenger door anyway.

“Nah,” Peter said, sliding out and trying to pull on his mask on in one, not-particularly-graceful motion.

“ _Why?”_

“ _Because_ ,” Peter responded.

“Because _what?”_

“If he knows I’m Spider-Man,” Peter called, already running, “there’s no _way_ he’ll let me date Gwen!”

Leaving the car behind in the street, Peter flipped up onto the nearest ledge of a tall building and surveyed the scene, heart hammering in his chest. He wasn’t really _Spider-Man._ Not yet. That was just a name Tony had suggested. Stopping two-bit crooks and muggers was one thing, but this guy…

He looked like a huge, deformed bird, with skeletal metal wings and sharp talons, but his face was human and twisted into an almost grotesque smile. He was _enjoying_ himself, Peter realised, and an anger surged within him. Without stopping to really consider his next move, Peter ran and shot a web onto one of the overhead struts of the bridge. He heard gasps around him and wanted to look around for Curt and Billy, but kept his eyes focused on the birdman, flapping menacingly ahead. He needed to ground him.

“Nice wings!” Peter called out. “Next time, I’d recommend taking a bus. Now what do you say we let the good people of New York go about their business and we settle this like weird, insect-and-bird themed men? What are you meant to be, anyway, a magpie?”

“I am The _Vulture,_ ” the man screeched, but Peter wasn’t waiting for the answer. He shot out a web across the man and started to run with it, hopping from car to car until he’d successfully tied the man up in knots. Peter reminded himself to thank Norman for Oscorp’s amazing fake spider webs; really, he couldn’t have made them better himself.

As the Vulture struggled, a few cheers came up from the bridge, and then a wave of encouragement as the terrified hostages realised that help really had come. Peter jumped up onto the tallest vehicle and scanned the crowd, looking for a blue car and two heads of bright blonde hair. Before he could zero in on his family, he froze to hear a screech of laughter behind him. Peter remembered the sharp, artificial talons. He turned just in time to see the Vulture fly towards him, a murderous glint in his eye. Peter shot forward and dodged him with a hair’s breadth between them. He hung from the bridge, opposite the Vulture, who shouted in frustration and turned to face him again.

Peter considered his next move, and realised that, honestly, he should have given the whole ‘superhero’ venture a lot more consideration.

The Vulture spat at the ground. “And here I thought you were a myth,” he sneered, his voice carrying impressively across the suddenly silent bridge. “The little spider of New York city. Not so impressive when you’re alone, hanging by a thread.”

A few shouts of encouragement rose back up from the hostages on the bridge. Peter steeled himself for the incoming onslaught.

And then, a slightly mechanic voice rang out: “ _He’s not alone!”_

Peter looked up to see Iron Man; a shooting star of red and gold descending onto the bridge. He turned his head, hearing a slight crackle of electricity to his left, and saw Black Widow perched on the top of a van.

“Fancy a team-up?” she called out.

Peter grinned, and somersaulted down to join her. “Do I _ever._ ”

“Help Matt get the hostages to safety,” she said. “We’ll handle this guy. You’ve done great.”

Peter flipped her a salute, and as Iron Man shot a beam of repulsor energy at the Vulture, causing him to fall to the ground, Peter sprang into action and webbed up a net for the villain to fall in while the civilians underneath ran for cover. “Get towards the police line!” he shouted, shepherding a line of people away from the action and towards safety while the Vulture was too preoccupied with fighting two real-life Avengers to bother keeping track of hostages. His arms and legs ran on autopilot as he searched the crowd, passing men and women and children through to the police line, until, finally…

“ _Dad!_ ” he yelled.

In a crowd of people heading towards the entrance to the bridge, Curt stopped and turned to see his eldest son running towards him.

“I _told_ you,” Billy said triumphantly.

Peter, confident that Matt would round up the last of the civilians, scooped Billy up and ran with them to the police line, where they were quickly received into safety. From where she had been standing with Captain Stacy, Mary ran over to envelop her husband in a hug. Peter reluctantly put Billy down, and tried to act like he wasn’t totally more invested in the safety of the three people in front of him than anyone else on the bridge.

Peter knelt down to ruffle his little brother’s hair. “I’ll see you at home,” he whispered to Billy. “Take care of mom and dad for me.”

Curt regarded him fondly as he straightened up. “Thank you,” he said. “Spider-Man.”

Peter put on his best _I’m-not-a-seventeen-year-old_ voice for the benefit of the people around them. “You’re welcome, uh. Civilian. You be safe out there, now.”

Peter faintly heard Captain Stacy mumble, _“oh, brother”._ He stayed still just long enough to make sure that all three of them were safely escorted to their car, before running back to join the others on the bridge.

Daredevil bumped his shoulder affectionately as they both made their way over to where the Vulture, tied up and grumbling, was under control. “Nice work, kid.”

“We’ve got just the place for this guy,” Iron Man informed them both. “Our people are coming to collect him. Do you want a lift home, Peter?”

“Depends,” Peter shrugged. “Are you ready to be fawned over by my little brother?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll cope,” Natasha said, dryly.

“Also,” Peter continued, “you have to help me convince my parents that me being a reckless vigilante totally isn’t the worst idea ever. They’re kind of over-protective. No idea why.”

Tony laughed, knowing, as Peter did, _exactly_ why. “I’ll try, but I can’t work miracles. Lead the way, Spider-Man.”

*

_One week later._

“Are you sure about this?” Curt asked for the hundredth time that day.

Peter, comfortably settled on the office sofa, nodded at his dad. “I will literally take my own blood if you don’t hurry up.”

Curt chuckled, despite the worry on his face. “Okay, okay. Hold still.”

Peter bit his lip as the needle entered a vein on his wrist, and then looked away. He’d never liked watching the process, but unlike Richard, Curt kept up a steady stream of soft conversation to soothe him as he filled four vials up with Peter’s blood. After the fourth, he quickly and efficiently withdrew the needle before pressing a ball of cotton wool to the pinprick left on Peter’s arm. “Okay, apply some pressure there,” he said, and leaned over to grab something from the drawer.

Gwen, who had been lending a hand with the vials, squeezed Peter’s shoulder gently. “Good job.”

Peter blinked, and stared at them both as he pressed down on the cotton wool. “Wait. That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Curt confirmed. He passed Gwen an antiseptic wipe and a brightly coloured Band-Aid.

“You only needed four vials? Seriously?”

Curt frowned. “Well, four is more than enough. I’m keeping two in reserve so we shouldn’t have to do this again.”

“Oh.” Peter watched Gwen apply the neon pink Band-Aid to his arm and felt a rush of warmth come over him as he remembered where he’d come from and where he was now. “I should have realised it would be different here.” He leaned against Gwen; feeling tired, but not the bone-deep tiredness he would have experienced a year ago. Just a comfortable, sleepy feeling, safe in the knowledge that he was with family.

There was a knock on the glass office door, and then Harry entered with a cardboard cup holder full of coffee cups. “Figured you’d need some sugar,” he said to Peter, handing him a hot chocolate.

Peter grinned. “And it’s not even Sunday.” He budged up a little to let Harry sit beside them.

“Mary’s with dad, we’re supposed to go meet them in a minute,” Harry told him. “How are you doing?”

“Good,” Peter said. “I have this sweet pink Band-Aid now. I _love_ not being colour blind.”

Harry traced the edge of the Band-Aid on Peter’s arm with his finger, very lightly. “Thank you,” he murmured. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“Did you know they only needed _four_ vials of blood? Wild,” Peter said instead of anything appropriately emotional, because he’d tried time and time again to convince everyone that he really was okay with giving anything he could to the search for a cure. He took a sip of the hot chocolate he held in one hand, and stood up, with Gwen’s hand in his other. “Okay, let’s go. Mom’s going to be panicking that I’ve jumped out a window or something.”

Gwen snorted. “Right, because that’s never happened in this office before.” They walked to the door, and then Peter broke off.

“I’ll catch you up,” he said, and walked back into the office. Curt looked up from his computer screen and smiled as Peter went straight in for a hug.

“I’m so proud of you,” Curt said, as they broke away. “You know it’s enough that we try, right? You can’t always save everyone. But you can always try.”

“I know,” Peter said, smiling. “Thanks, Dad.” He left Curt in his office with the pleased, surprised expression which he still wore whenever Peter called him ‘dad’. He didn’t know why it had taken him so long to get to that stage, but he was glad he did. In such a short space of time Curt had been a better father to Peter than Richard ever had.

He finished the last of his hot chocolate as caught up with Harry and Gwen on the balcony that leaned over the Oscorp foyer. Peter opened his mouth to ask what they were looking at, when Gwen flapped her hands at him and Harry hissed, “ _ssh._ ” He looked over the rail of the balcony and saw a group of younger teenagers congregated around one of the benches, presumably waiting for a tour of the building, and tuned into the conversation that Gwen and Harry were avidly eavesdropping.

 _“I hear what you’re saying, Darryl,_ ” said one voice, _“but Spider-Man is a complete newcomer. We don’t know anything about him.”_

 _“Right,”_ another scoffed, _“and we know so much about Daredevil. Oh, wait. We don’t.”_

Harry nudged him. “They’re arguing about who would win in a fight between you and Matt.”

“Oh, my God,” Peter laughed. “Well, I can answer that one.”

 _“Spider-Man’s better looking than Daredevil_.”

“ _You can’t see his face,_ ” a girl argued.

 _“I don’t need to,_ ” the first voice replied. _“Hello, spandex.”_

“I’ll fight her,” Gwen murmured, as Harry burst into hysterics. “Watch me.”

“Come on, you two,” Harry whispered, checking his watch before he lead them both away. They fell into step, three abreast in the corridor, with Peter in the middle. “I guess you really are a household name now, huh? Feel good to be Spider-Man?”

Peter grinned at them both, ignoring the fluttery feeling in his stomach. Going from only knowing one person, to being discussed by total strangers on the morning news, would take some getting used to. As they walked his left hand felt around to hold Gwen's, and then he took Harry’s with his right.

“Feels pretty good,” he said, honestly. “But not as good as being just Peter.”

**Author's Note:**

> That's a wrap on this 'verse! My beautiful affection-starved boy, I missed him so much.  
> Sequels are hard and I live for comments. Thanks for reading!


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